Girl of Fire

by Gabrielle Mathieu

  “Yes. I only stopped to ask her for news of someone. I’m seeking a girl from this village. She’s red-haired.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “And taller than I expected.”

  I’d shot up in height in the last year or two. Like a sapling in a shaded corner, reaching for the light. I had long legs and they liked to move over the land, pushing me toward the horizon. That’s how my mother described it.

  “I don’t know whom you mean, Sir,” I said. It was the default answer for a villager confronted by someone powerful. This man’s face was naked and his hair shorn like a sheep’s. His short hair and lack of a beard called attention to his refined features. His nails were clean, and although his hands looked capable and strong, they were not raw and red like mine. His blue eyes were gentle.

  Still. Though I liked the merry color of the forbidden Robe, it failed to conceal the scabbard and sword underneath.

  This was more trouble. The Mannites were heretics, who trafficked in dark arts. Their women were unchaste, coupling at will. Maybe he was even befriended by the Demon.

  I turned to flee. He was flesh and blood, not like the Demon. His sword looked heavy, and he was no longer young. I could outrun him, get to our cottage, and bar the door. If he persisted, he would find us ready with pitchfork, hunting knife, and scythe.

  CHAPTER 4

  Shandon the Mannite

  Shandon maintained a semblance of calm, though he almost panicked. If the girl ran now, months of laborious research could be lost. It had taken him a long time to track her down in the south of Trea, in this little village, armed only with information from the birds.

  The last girl had not been easy either. If only he would discover the identity of the prophesied one soon. He was tired, no longer young and idealistic. He wanted nothing more than to retreat to Bolin’s mountain home and lie with him outside on a warm night, comfortable on the soft bear pelt, while they sipped spicy sweet chrysanthemum tea and gazed at the stars.

  “Wait. Please wait,” he pleaded. “I only seek to speak with you. No more.”

  She turned around, holding the shovel so tightly her knuckles were white. She didn’t have the open innocence he expected with fire types. She looked tense and troubled, dark rings under her unusual green eyes, which had flecks of orange. The smell of her sweat signaled she was terrified.

  He was used to a variety of reactions to his Yellow Robe. People barred the door when they saw him coming; some spat on the ground or made a sign to avert the evil eye. He’d once been attacked by a group of rather drunken men and forced to lay about him with the flat of his sword. But there were also folk who would treat him like anyone else, as long as there weren’t witnesses around. Once in a while, he’d even run across someone curious and have a stimulating conversation.

  This didn’t look like one of those times. The girl’s lips were clamped shut like she was holding in something. A bruise marred her sun-kissed cheek. Her eyes flicked over him, noting his sheathed sword and judging his strength. She was strong herself; he could see that. And desperate. He hoped she wasn’t going to try to hit him with that shovel.

  He knew she was almost eighteen. All the girls were the same age; the prophecy had indicated the year of birth, their fire affinity, and little else.

  So young. He had to stop her from staring at his sword; that could only intensify her paranoia. Perhaps he could distract her with something pretty. Shandon spread his hands. “Here, look at this.” An iridescent, indigo butterfly hovered over his palm.

  “Did you make that?” she asked. Her voice was low and husky, her rural accent noticeable to his traveled ears.

  “Would it frighten you if I did?”

  Her look of scorn took him by surprise. It implied she had seen much worse. “You carry a sword?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought Yellow Robes were magicians?”

  “Magic is only a tool.”

  “To what end?” She was still tense, face grim.

  “To protect the people of Trea and to bring enlightenment to our land.”

  A glint of interest in her eyes now. She moved a tiny step closer. “Why would we need heretics to protect us? We have an entire army of Amur’s Chosen ready to defend Trea against evil.”

  The Chosen stole the glory from the Mannites after the Great War and took credit for the Water Demon’s defeat. They knew nothing. Only the Mannites understood the danger the land faced.

  More precisely, only Shandon. The Mannite Council didn’t know of the prophecy that foretold the return of the Water Demon. The ancient Elder scroll had found its way into Shandon’s hands, vanishing back into the Cabinet of Mysteries at midnight. He’d taken the warning about a Mannite traitor to heart, and kept the prophecy a secret.

  The girl looked at him questioningly, her mouth turning down with suspicion. He’d been quiet for too long.

  He couldn’t tell her the truth. She’d been raised to believe the Chosen’s lies.

  “Evil things. We protect from all evil,” he said quickly.

  “Does one have to pay for that protection? Or worship Krossos Mannine?”

  “No, of course not.” The prophesied one should be joyful, warm, and impulsive. This girl was jumpy. The edicts of Amur could be hard for those with mischievous energy and a friendly nature. The Intercessors dealt with these young girls by subjecting them to public shaming, or isolation cells. There was her bruise to consider. Perhaps she’d been recently mistreated.

  “Are you Berona?” he asked gently.

  “No.” A defiant shake of her head.

  He went over some of the words of the prophecy in his mind once again, wondering if he’d translated them correctly. Eldering was notoriously difficult to learn.

  For aid look to the fire child,

  She who runs in the mountains wild.

  A girl born in the year of the Hare

  Could free them from the Demon’s snare.

  Not much to go on. The birds had shown Bolin the girl they’d seen in this village, with her red hair and straight back. They’d seen her wandering alone through the deep woods, her face turned up to catch the wind, her booted feet sure on the rocks and roots. A lovely picture, but it did not mean this child was destined to save the world.

  He didn’t want to convince her to join him only to find he’d made the wrong choice. He already had Rheyna to feed and find a place for.

  The girl was staring at him with narrowed eyes. “I should go collect the goats. They must have drunk their fill.”

  “Don’t you want to know why I came here? Your village is pious; I know I run a risk in this part of the country, wearing the Robe.”

  “Did your heretic founder Krossos Mannine send you?”

  “Krossos Mannine left this world more than a thousand years ago. No one sent me. I’m seeking warriors to join us.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Why are you talking to young women, then?”

  Kendall. He should bring up Kendall. “The captain of the Red Robes is a woman. She asked me to find more girls. It’s hard for a girl when she’s alone, training with the boys. Better when there are two or three. They can befriend each other.”

  She looked astonished. “So it’s true? You teach women how to fight? Would you teach me?”

  He’d awoken her interest, thank Krossos. “We would teach Berona,” he said, testing.

  “Why are you looking for me?” At least she’d admitted her name.

  The truth would be overwhelming. And besides, he could be wrong. Shandon folded his hands, choosing his words carefully. “You’re courageous and fast. I thought you’d be a good recruit. We will allow you to make choices. You won’t be forced to do things you’d rather not. All we ask is that you not betray the locations of our holdings, once you join us.”

  She nodded once, and then said quietly, “I will not join a group where I’m asked to keep secrets.”

  “It’s not like that. We must conceal ourselves from the Priest-King, for he might decide to rout us out.
But you can trust any Mannite.” Except for the traitor the prophecy hinted at, of course.

  “That means I should trust you?”

  He ought to think of a magnanimous gesture. Nothing came to mind.

  She saved him the trouble.

  “Would you give me your sword?”

  “What?” As former Lord of Angur, Shandon had one of the few magic swords in Trea. The wish of the one who wielded it guided its bite.

  Berona’s brows knitted together. “I just want it for one day. To try out. To see if the life you describe would suit me.”

  What would her parents say when she showed up with it? It would alarm them, and intensify the hunt for the Mannite intruder. He didn’t fancy the thought of all the hounds in the village yapping on his heels, and the locals armed with pitchforks and torches. He smiled wryly. “I don’t think your family will like it if you come home with a sword. I do have a very nice hunting knife that you could conceal.”

  “Let me see.”

  He reached under the Robe, pulling out the ivory-handled knife and handing it to her hilt first. She sliced through a dandelion, watching as the puff scattered in the air. “Sharp.”

  Things were going better. He dared to press. “I will visit your home this evening to get it back. I’ll need your decision about my offer then.”

  “I can meet you somewhere.”

  Despite the spiteful rumors, Shandon was not a kidnapper of children. Those who accompanied him ideally went with the blessings of their family or, less ideally, at least with their grudging consent. Shandon’s gold, left over from his reign as Lord of Angur, often helped worried mothers and angry fathers find their way to a less extreme position.

  “I’ll come to your home,” he told her.

  “Could you wait until after supper before you visit? I’d like a meal with my family first.” He noted the evident love the girl had for her kin. Behind that wary exterior lay a warm heart.

  Shandon nodded, daring to hope for the first time in a while. Perhaps he’d found the Girl of Fire after all.

  He extended his hand, palm up, the way the country folk did. “I’m Shandon.”

  “And you know my name, though I cannot think how.” She flashed a smile at him, before her expression turned serious again. “After dinner then,” she said, not meeting his eyes.

  CHAPTER 5

  Berona

  I stopped once I had put some distance between us. Was Shandon in league with the Demon, despite his apparent amiability?

  No. I glimpsed the yellow of his garment among the grove of wild chestnut trees. He was moving away from the river.

  I sighed. What had I just done?

  I had lied. I’d made a bargain I had no intention of keeping.

  All my life, I’d heard about the dangerous Mannites from Aunt Galent, who filled in for the Intercessor between his visits and tended the village shrine. After the Demon, though, Shandon didn’t seem frightening. In fact, he seemed kind.

  I did my special whistle for the goats, letting them know I’d give them a treat. While I waited for them to clop up, I pulled out the man’s knife, admiring the hilt, engraved with runes. While it wasn’t a sword, it would do some damage. I might even kill her.

  I bit back a desperate laugh. Kill her. How likely was that?

  What would Shandon do when I didn’t give it back? Would he use magic to avenge himself?

  Aunt Galent said Mannites were lawless, dangerous and lewd. But she also said if we ate peppers while pregnant our children would be crazy. She claimed the Priest-King was ten feet tall and the most handsome man in Trea but remained chaste because he served the Goddess. And the Priest-King that lived six hundred years ago—the famous one that slew the Water Demon—he was carried to heaven by four giant butterflies. I had trouble believing that one.

  My mother had eaten peppers while she was heavy with me. I was not crazy. At least, I did not drool and tear at my hair. I couldn’t totally rule out insanity, if insanity was a form of defiance. I had talked with a heretic, after all.

  The goats were nudging me now, whickering. If I didn’t get them their carrots, they would make me sorry.

  I still didn’t know how I could protect all of us with one knife. I couldn’t patrol the river every night. If only we could flee. Without any gold or Father’s support, that seemed unlikely.

  * * *

  The enticing smell from a stew of hare meat greeted me as I opened the door. Mother’s face was creased with worry. I moved to the shadows to hide my bruise.

  “You’re finally home. I shouldn’t have let you out, even with that slingshot,” she scolded.

  Dedi grinned. “You would have had to tie her up to keep her inside.”

  Mother shook her head at me, then smiled despite herself. “Fetch me a few juniper berries from my jar.”

  I brought a handful, leaning in close to catch her smell, the scent of lavender mixed with scouring soap. She had laundered in the big brass kettle and then scrubbed our floor.

  Mother seemed to have forgotten about the juniper berries. She left them on the trestle as the stew simmered and put an arm around me. “It was a Mannite that took Rheyna. People have glimpsed his Yellow Robe. Wears it right out in the open. Your father will meet the other villagers at dawn. They’ll hunt him down, don’t worry. But I wanted to warn you. There could be more than one about. Sometimes they travel with Red Robes, with the warriors. I don’t want to lose you.” Her green eyes sparked with warning; we had the same color eyes, only mine had orange flecks in them. She was beautiful, even though her back was stooped from working, and her skin burnt from the sun and wind.

  “Would that be worse than marrying me off to a man I hardly know?”

  “Oh, Berona. We would encourage a suitor to court you. I’ll not pack you off to the marriage bed after one meeting.”

  “But there’s the bridal price,” I said, feeling my way carefully. “There might be enough gold for you all to start somewhere new. Where the villagers don’t gossip. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  She didn’t deny it. Instead, she said, “We don’t know anyone that wealthy.”

  “What am I worth then?” I thought of Shandon’s sword. It was ornamented with stones; even I could see they were more than colored glass. His shapely hands had never been marked by manual labor.

  “I’ll not have you think like that. You’re not a piece of merchandise,” Mother said. She stirred the pot hard.

  Dedi skipped up to me and whispered in my ear. “When Ged first saw you, he was ready to offer five gold pieces. He said you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.”

  * * *

  I pushed the tender hare meat around, my appetite gone, while the rest of my family wolfed down the stew.

  Shandon would be here soon, demanding back the knife. Could I just brazen it out, tell him I’d lost it? And if for some reason he believed me, what then? I closed my eyes, picturing the Demon’s long body and sharp claws. It would be a lucky stab that would bleed her life away. Did demons even have blood?

  I gulped back tears, angry that life was so unfair. I never hurt anyone. Up until my meeting with Shandon, I never even lied. It was true I daydreamed about the woods instead of listening to Aunt Galent when she told us stories of Amur and her Chosen. But it was only because they were the same stories, over and over.

  The Chosen made the land safe, so that our wombs could quicken along with the fruits of the field, so that our children would not be despoiled by foreigners but would grow up chaste until they were fecund in turn. The particulars of the stories varied. The Chosen forced out the tradesman of East Sarsara, who sold our young girls to foreign nobles to abuse. The Chosen tracked down the witches of the Fens, who had sheltered the defiant wife of a Lord of Angur. The Intercessors used prayers to weaken the Elementals, so the Chosen could herd them to a faraway place.

  The Chosen, the sacred warriors. Always the Chosen, reporting to the men of piety, the Intercessors. They wouldn’t help me. More
likely they would suggest an exorcism.

  Father’s voice jolted me out of my thoughts. “What do you want for your birthday next week? Eighteen’s a special time. Shall we get you a pretty frock to wear for your suitors?”

  He was trying to make amends, but all I could hear was the word “suitors.” I longed for a husband. But the farmers here cuffed their dogs and held their drink in both hands like their milk pails, slopping the wine as they gulped. I shuddered to think of their hands gripping my breasts like a nanny goat’s teats.

  There was a knock on the door. It had to be Shandon. I wondered what he would say, how he would present his arguments for taking me. Was he even telling the truth? Or would he use me in some heretic ritual and then abandon me?

  “Who stirs so late?” Father said, rising from his chair and setting his goblet of wine down. Dedi stopped scouring the stew pot with sand and soapwort and looked up expectantly. She liked visitors.

  “Sani, your neighbor.” The voice was muffled. It could have been Sani’s, but I doubted it.

  My father went to the door, and Shandon entered, a tentative look on his face. His eyes took in my parents’ shocked faces, the low ceiling blackened with smoke, the pile of rumpled bedding where I slept with Dedi in front of the hearth.

  I saw through his eyes for a moment, realized how our house would look to someone who could afford fine boots like his. Then Shandon spoke. “Apologies. I prefer to be invited in, rather than breaking the door, even if it means a bit of deception. But I need to speak with you.”

  Father grabbed the first thing at hand, our long-tined potato digging fork. “I heard what you did.” He advanced a few steps. “Bring the girl Rheyna back, or…” He must have become aware of the heavy, well-made sword hanging at Shandon’s side. “It will go ill with you,” he said, voice faltering.